Cholestorol and How It Leads To Split Ends
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: She thinks she sees him smile, but she's not sure; it's so rare when it happens, a genuine smile from him, that if he actually did smile at her while talking anything *other* than business she'd be severely freaked.


"Your hair isn't actually like that, is it?" he asks her one morning as he peruses the donuts she has selected in her dozen.

She's busy looking over the Boston Globe Online (the Funnies, why are the Funnies funnier in Boston?) when he asks, but it doesn't shock her. Her hair, an easy area to target; she'd have been a little worried if he'd said anything about her new shade of blush, that'd be a little too much.

As Jack pokes the glazed one, rendering it unappetizing, she shuts her browser window and slowly shuts the laptop. This is nothing new, in fact, if Liz didn't have these moments with Jack, the day just wouldn't be set off right. "Brown Jack, you think my hair isn't _brown_?" Sure, maybe she could have understood if she was blonde and he was asking her about her coif, but really, could her hair be more brown?

Twisting his face into a grimace, he snatches a powdered monstrosity and examines it, while off-handedly saying, "No, that shiny and curly." Jack sniffs it and then tosses it back into the cardboard box. "I wouldn't think a woman like you would invest in hair products, but it shows."  
Unconsciously, she runs a hand through her hair, trying not to smile. Well, that was almost a compliment.

Almost.

Liz shifts her glasses more firmly on her nose and glances up at him, attempting nonchalance; she fails, as always. "I just, you know, condition and blow dry... I guess. Shampoo, every once..." and then it hits her, she's explaining herself to Jack Donaghy; Liz doesn't have to do this, but she is. "...in awhile," she finished and feels like a failure.

She feels like she's been drawn into some complex plot that she's better than. And she is... better than, that is; better than his backhanded compliments and his kind smiles and... yeah... all of that. All of a sudden, she really wants a Boston Creme donut. Like, in her mouth, immediately.

"Well," he claims, scrunching up his nose one last time at the box of "thigh insulation" and reverts to looking at her. "It looks... natural."

Twilight zone? Are they in the twilight zone? Maybe... she hopes. "Yeah, I tried to dye it purple in high school, but I didn't know I had to bleach it first so it didn't take." She says it, and she sounds excited; it makes him smile for some strange reason.

And... yeah... she kinda wants to vomit.

Not because he makes her sick, and not because she's nervous, it's something else. Something strange. "Are you uh, holding my strawberry frosted for a reason?" He is, holding her strawberry frosted, that is. Liz wouldn't so much mind that he was holding it if he intended to eat it. Because well, she kinda wants it...

Not the point, not the point at all because she feels nauseas in a queer sort of way, like someone has taken some of the oxygen out of the room and could she have it back please. Jack dips a pinky in the frosting and sucks it in between his lips, a wayward sprinkle clinging to the corner of his mouth. Liz blinks, she blinks because she finds herself wanting to be the sprinkle and oh god-WHAT?!

No, no, she does not want to be a tiny speck of sugar adhered to Jack Donaghy's lip, she wants to be... everything BUT that. Things like... she wants to be things like, oh she'd rather be a stripper in Bob Saget's trailer while he gets high on homemade crystal meth than be a confectionary treat on his lip and why is she thinking like this? All he did was touch her donuts...

Wow, that even sounds wrong in her head.

Visibly, she shivers and he notices, finally taking a large bite of the breakfast treat.

She wants to moan; dear God what is going on here!? Surely Dunkin Donuts isn't a tool used for foreplay (and if it is, oh boy, she's been missing out for years).

Okay, this is really like the episode of the Twilight Zone where the night watchmen of the art gallery wishes he was in a painting of a beautiful meadow and he wishes and wishes and one night goes back and wishes and the paintings have been switched and he ends up crucified. It feels like that almost; if she admits it to herself (and she won't, she's _really_ mastered self-restraint in that respect) there are things about him that she finds erotic, but she only allows herself to enjoy them in her head, far from 30 Rock and... and...

Oh dear, he's licking his fingers and that, well that, that... that is just not good.

Liz feels like she's in a trance, and she must be because after a moment or two, she hears a faint snapping and shakes herself out of her own head. "Lemon? Lemon, I was asking if you ate these for breakfast all the time... you know what they'll do to your cholesterol."

No, no she doesn't eat donuts for breakfast everyday, but she thinks she might now.


End file.
